12.27.07 kulturnatib

Comme d'habitude

Huh? Exactly my reaction when I heard this bit of French, comme d'habitude. This translates in English to, 'as usual.' So?

Not much really. But, for those among us who have to say something (almost always) about the Philippines or Filipinos, this bit of French or the history associated with it is useful information, if only to have handy in the trivia pocket.

This piece of trivia relates directly to this distinction – self-awarded, not surprisingly – of being a people who will, at the drop of a hat or, even, for no reason at all, break into song.

We are, in short, singers and, for Cebuanos, guitar players. Music thus, for those who equate national identity with something innate, is in our blood. As it happens, murder or homicide, as well.

'As usual' doesn't ring a bell except as a common enough English expression. But, the translation from the French that rings a huge bell for us is this: My Way.

Aha! Now we're talking.

So, talk gets around to this at the dining table with Canadian friends; 'My Way,' and how the Philippines has earned the distinction – this time confirmed in what is developing into a world authority on almost all matters, the Wikipedia – as being the country where “. . . it has been reported to cause numerous incidents of violence and homicides among drunkards in bars . . . .”

Along with this entry is a link to news of the latest reported killing in the city of San Mateo dated June of this year by an irate security guard who couldn't stand the off-key singing of 'My Way,' and the way the singer wouldn't listen to him who wanted it his way, for the singer to stop singing.

I also related having been at a party sometime two or three years ago in Makati where I met a group of film students from Denmark who were in the country to do a documentary of those who had fallen to the murderous charms or compulsions of this song and that at that time they had just been back from Samar tracking down the family of one victim who was willing to be interviewed on camera.

'My Way' is related to the earlier mentioned French phrase as a matter of parentage. At least as for the French song's melody whose publishing rights were bought, altered, restructured and given English lyrics.

The person to do this is singer Paul Anka who, as happens, is a Canadian from Ottawa and has a street named after him there and who, it seems, is among those Canadians who make it big outside Canada – the Philippines comes immediately to mind, think Celine Dion, Michael Buble, and others – before Canadians would hear of them.

Paul Anka then gives the rewritten song to Frank Sinatra who, as Paul Anka relates, was at that time, wanting to quit show business. Sinatra records it in 1969 on an album with the same title and, as they say, the rest is history.

One bit of history – obscure as it may be for many – that is worth mentioning here is the short film produced by Produksiyon Trantomina of Bacolod City. This film is patterned after the classical videoke music video where the song lyrics appear below the screen with a 'bouncing ball' that moves through the lyrics as they are to be sung as an aid to the singer or singers.

The content of the video is that of an embalmer going about his business as a baker would with his. Filmed in black and white, it contrasts the frankly grisly action with the embalmer's practiced and professional nonchalance that, with the lyrics and the bouncing ball that takes on a positively airy disposition, makes one clutch the stomach from the hilarity of it and, at the same time, to keep the stomach's contents from gushing out.

Still, My Way, is a somewhat appropriate Philippine anthem, which also translates to 'Only In The Philippines.'

As we shuffle towards the exit door of 2007 and stumble into 2008 we might give this some thought. And, just possibly, alternately laugh and cry.

12.13.07 kulturnatib

Goodbye, book card

Ever since I learned about and started using libraries -- excluding the very modest single cabinet library at our ancestral home -- I always associated libraries with library book cards.

This was the necessary currency that made library transactions possible, except when one just read or researched books or magazines in the library premises, in which case the other currency would be some kind of identification card that allowed access into the library, its materials and facilities.

But with the internet libraries have changed as has most everything else in most places where the internet is becoming central for most of life's transactions.

This, for the most part, has just been something I've read somewhere. In Cebu, as with most of the Philippines, the internet is still gaining ground, the use of which is mostly still confined to personal transactions, personal communications and the like.

I do not know whether local school libraries have now adopted internet technologies for archiving, tracking or accessing books or other materials or if they have remained as they have ever since the library card, the index card, and the identification card were developed as the tripod that supported the entire library's functioning.

I doubt it. I doubt even more that public libraries – where? -- have been brought up to speed. I bet they would still be up on the speed they have always moved at: immobile.

As an aside, I'm reminded of this quaint little immobile library I stumbled into one afternoon (a Sunday, I guess) in Bantayan town. It must have had some sign announcing itself or I wouldn't have recognized it because, aside from that, it was just like any ordinary house in the town center. And then, this I'm sure of, it was closed.

But I got somebody to open it. I was ushered into a jumble of half empty, dust encrusted shelves where books lay every which way. Then I found one book soon after I started looking around. It was as if I had stumbled onto a treasure trove. In some way it was.

I found a surprise; a book, the only novel by the American poet E.E. Cummings. “The Enormous Room,” is a book about Cummings experience in a French prison, suspected as a spy while serving with an ambulance crew there during the First World War.

This novel isn't as known as his poetry, in fact, not many literate people would know about this book. But, it struck me as, well, a novelty.

I asked the person who accompanied me if I could borrow it. Sure, he said, you can have it. There.

One of the things I immediately took care of soon after arriving here in Gatineau, across Ottawa, Canada, was to secure access to the city library or the bibliotheque municipale at the maison du citoyen, literally, house of the citizens or city hall.

I was asked for a few documents establishing my identity, was asked to sit in front of an web camera and voila -- as they would say here -- I had my library access card.

In a few days, I was already borrowing a book. This was when I learned that here traditional book cards were now a thing of the past.

In its place are bar codes on the books, bar code scanners and a printer that printed out a sheet containing information about the book, borrowing conditions and the date the book is due to be returned and the phone number of the library that one can call should one decide to extend or renew the lease on the book.

Or, one doesn't have to bother calling. Through the internet, one can do the same thing and, this way, one is also informed whether a book is available or whether lease on it can be renewed or any other information one might need about the library and its materials.

This library is the main one in the city and there are, at least, eight more smaller facilities scattered throughout what were once five cities now amalgamated into a single entity. The conditions for use would be the same as would be its accessibility.

This is one goodbye that, for me, will only be sweet and no sorrow.

12.06.07 kulturnatib

for those who are not in cebu or who might not have heard or read the news lately this column is a tribute for adolph 'doc' espina who, last weekend, went with 5 others, to a cave in gaas with the intention to map it and determine whether indeed it was the deepest cave, probably in the world, as they thought it was. they did not succeed. they instead met with a tragedy. doc plummeted some 56 meters to his death. this is a tribute to a dear friend, a passionate outdoors person and environmentalist.


Doc

There is something about the shock of bad news that is hugely different from that of good news. With bad news one is left holding on to nothing much but heavy emotions and feelings of listlessness and of irreplaceable loss, especially when one is thousands of kilometers away in a landscape that is cold, stark, relentless and yes, for all that, somehow beautiful.

Last night (Nov. 30, local time), I received the news on my email. Notwithstanding that there is a 13 hour difference between here and there, the impact was still immediate. As if to prepare one for the inevitable, which there isn't really any preparation for, the letter simply said: “. . . bad news.” And proceeded with the bad news.

I was stunned, saddened. But hopeful. I replied, I hope by this time everyone has been rescued and are well. But this was not to be the case.

On the evening before my early morning departure two weeks ago, I came in and out of a meeting of a group of mountaineers and cavers at the JumpOff Point office. I understood that the this was a preparatory meeting for the Gaas cave exploration and mapping trip.

In attendance were more than the six persons who finally went on that fateful trip and who were indeed, as far as i know, the most experienced, caving-wise, of that group.

Doc was there. Doc was almost always there, at the JumpOff office. He would either be behind the computer, or at some preparatory work with equipment – charging batteries for the headlamps, getting ropes in order, jerryrigging something into some useful climbing equipment (this and ropes were his acknowledged specialty) or simply, as with most outdoors persons, enjoying a drink or two, during or after meetings, both formal and informal.

When Jumpoff opened beside Turtle's Nest Book Cafe almost two years ago, they were a very welcome addition to the community of artists, activists, students and sundry persons of the liberal-left persuasion who gravitated towards that watering hole.

Here was a group who were passionate about the outdoors, were highly professional and, more than that, also knew how to have a good time, which meant, much of the time, something that had to do with the outdoors; mountaineering, kayaking and others.

Their passion for the outdoors easily translated into their concern for the environment. At mid-year, this year, the Greenpeace Cebu Local Group was established with the Jumpoff personnel making up most the core group. They readily volunteered their office to be the ad hoc office of the Greenpeace CLG.

Doc was in this group, ever helpful.

Personally, Doc was a great help. As I wrote in one of my previous columns, he contributed the pivotal element to the last performance art piece I participated in. This element, the use of ropes, rope equipment and a caving harness, was prepared by Doc with the assistance of Dondon Dimpas.

Doc was the reassuring figure who helped me overcome the natural fear of heights and falling. He kept reminding me, “Don't be afraid. Trust the rope, trust the rope!”

I did and, again as I wrote in that column, did some aerobatics that surprised both Doc and Dondon and, actually, myself as well.

At the end of the piece when the performance artists and the musicians took to the floor to take a bow, I insisted that Doc and Dondon join us. They did and I believe they shared in our success.

Here, from this far, I can only rely on news reports. Equipment failure was mentioned as the possible cause for Doc's fatal plummet. This could very well be. Even if Doc, ever the professional, was fastidious about equipment and safety, there is always that margin, no matter how small, for something untoward to happen.

I feel the loss of Doc. I share the grief of his colleagues, friends and family. Doc is no longer with us but he will always be with us.